


ichor

by kylonaberrie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Eldritch Transformation, F/F, Female Kylo Ren, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Occupational Pronouns, Other, POV Second Person, Phasma is an actual stormtrooper, Pre-Relationship, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), Trans Kylo Ren, soft, the force will fuck you up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29327013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylonaberrie/pseuds/kylonaberrie
Summary: ET-1378 discovers Lady Ren being violently ill in a training room.
Relationships: Phasma/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Phasma/Kylo Ren
Kudos: 4





	ichor

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this back in like college and thought i was going to continue it but then i didn't so im finally posting it bc its pretty good actually
> 
> phasma is the stormtrooper we deserved for her to be nd stormtroopers have occupational gender in this. this is like before phasma's promotion to ms shinyhelmet coolcape, shes/thons just a regular captain rn. kys in her 20s
> 
> also trans f ky ftw. eldritch monster ky for a different win
> 
> uhhhh vomit warning, monstrous transformation warning, talkin bout a fascist military state warning, snoke being Like That warning

She's on her knees at the far edge of one of the empty training rooms, bone-white fingers digging into the back of her shirt, hunched position only just apparent from your current angle and distance. The transparisteel door opens with the usual soft  _ whoosh _ when you hesitate before it with no regard for your intent, and you both straighten up as it alerts you to your newly defined roles as observer and subject. You neither enter nor leave. She doesn't move beyond the raise of her head and straightening of her spine, doesn't turn to look at you, but after a moment she speaks. 'Captain.' Her voice is weak and raspy.

'Sir,' you respond, and salute by rote. 'Are you in need of assistance?'

She looks around at you at that, and you can't deny your alarm at what you see: though you cannot make out fine detail across the training room, she is startlingly pale, and some black and viscous substance clings to the lower half of her face. She begins to shake her head, but at the first turn jerks forward instead as though on an invisible wire, leaving her back to you once more as she falls onto a supporting arm and heaves.

'Sir,' you repeat with urgency. 'Please allow me to go for help.'

'No,' she gasps. 'No, they won't--' she cuts off with a horrible hacking noise, followed by an unpleasant splat. She looks around at you again, and you see that she is crying.

You are out of your field, not to mention out of your depth, but as she just specified against it you cannot go for help. You cannot disobey her orders - that was made frighteningly clear when she arrived on the Obliterator several months ago - even if your better judgement begs you to. But you cannot leave her like this.

‘They won't be able to help,’ she finishes a few moments late of natural. ‘They won't-- They shouldn't-- It's okay.’ A whimper you are sure you weren't meant to hear escapes her. ‘It's okay.’

You think she may be speaking primarily to herself. ‘I am to leave you in this state?’ You confirm, and do your best to keep the incredulity out of your voice. You would not dare to presume to disagree.

‘This is supposed to be happening,’ she says. ‘This is normal.’

Yet that's not an order to leave. It's clear to you what's going on here, at least at surface; she is ailing and distressed, knows that for whatever reason there is nothing to be gained by going to medical and therefore nothing to be gained by drawing attention, but does not wish to dismiss the potential of help.

You enter the room. The door slides shut behind you. If she wishes to avoid unnecessary attention, standing in the hallway will not serve to aid her. ‘It's preventing you from continuing normal function,’ you point out, stopping to stand a few yards before her. You can see her better like this, even if you avoid getting presumptuously close: her eyes are lined with red, and she is sweating profusely. The mysterious black substance is gorily chunky and she has gotten a lot of it on the floor before her. A lot of her hair has come loose of its ponytail. Her eyes are wild through tears.

‘It has to happen,’ she says. ‘It's-- It just-- happens. It can't not.’

‘What's happening to you?’

She breaks her gaze and hunches back in on herself. ‘It's. The dark side of the force. It has... consequences. It's. This is part of my transformation. It's meant to happen.’

‘Is it painful?’

She nods, and wretches again, and you can see the black ichor spill from her mouth as she heaves. You don’t recoil, or look away. You’ve seen far less appetising things than this during your service, if ones of less mystical origins. You don't know much about the force, other than she and the Supreme Leader both command it and it gives them great power. You’re not even sure what form this great power may take, but far be it from you to question. You have never had reason to know more.

‘There is nothing that can be done, Captain,’ she rasps after a few moments, gasping for breath.

‘Yes, sir. You've made that perfectly clear. I will remind you I did offer you my leave.’

She doesn't say anything. She does not want to acknowledge her own weakness and desire for assistance. It is a failing you are exceedingly familiar with.

‘Speak of this to no-one,’ she says eventually.

‘Of course, sir.’ As if you needed telling.

‘You don't have to keep calling me sir,’ she mumbles.

‘Acknowledged.’ You move to stand, and then sit, beside her, still clear of the ichor by a few feet but with but within reasonable conversation distance. You have never found yourself in a situation quite like this before; mysterious illnesses aside, you have never once sat with one of your superiors as though they were something approaching an equal, and never sat with one at all without being specifically invited first. It feels... odd, and as though it might be disallowed at any moment, but it is logically the most appropriate action in this situation, given her dismissal of her honorific and want of company. Still, it is with ill ease that you settle down on the padded flooring.

Neither of you are masked or armored, instead clothed in your exercise fatigues. Hers are non-regulation: her shirt is black instead of grey and exposes less of her chest. You have seen each other like this before on several occasions, usually in passing; she always trains alone, though is visible through the high transparisteel wall and can occasionally be found in this sector's corridors. Many, you know from the inevitable overheard gossip, are unaware of her unmasked appearance and take her for some mysterious officer when they see her like this. You at one point witnessed her use of a training sword and therefore know better, but have not seen fit to quash the harmless source of entertainment the identity of this stranger forms. Despite these sightings you have never heard her speak without her helmet before. Her voice is very different, though that is likely due in bulk to her current affliction.

You look at her as she moves, shifts to be sitting on the floor, legs left to her side at an awkward angle. You have never had the occasion to note just how young she looks before; she must be younger than any of the soldiers under your command. Certainly younger than you. She clutches at the front of her shirt with both hands and her wrists crossed.

‘Will it pass?’ you ask with genuine concern.

She looks round at you sharply, but drops her gaze to the floor and the scattered globs of sick as she speaks. ‘I don’t know.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know.’ Her breath hitches. ‘It’s been getting worse.’

‘This has happened before?’

‘Not-- not this. Not like this. But--’ she thumps her chest. ‘It’s hurt like this. On and off.’ She wraps her arms around herself and does an admirable job of sinking into them for someone so large, knees pulled from their haphazard splay to her chest to complete the position. She’s trembling. ‘My eyes turned black the other day. Fully black, no-- no iris, or anything. It cleared up after-- I don’t know how long it was. Not long. But.’

She doesn’t finish. You can assume what she was getting at. You take a moment to imagine yourself in her boots; facing a painful and monstrous physical transformation outside of your control, and the sheer terror you would feel. Unless it was a particularly immaterial or useful transformation, you would face decommission. At least she doesn’t have that to worry about.

Unless she does.

Surely, though, if this is a result of her use of the force her master would expect it. That is likely where she got the knowledge about this inevitability in the first place. You have never been granted the honour of setting eyes upon the Supreme Leader, but you have heard - once, twice, he is a dangerous person to gossip about - whispers that he is warped and terrifying. An all-powerful beast. You would not presume to think these might be true. But given what Lady Ren is going through now, it suddenly doesn’t seem unlikely.

You shoo these thoughts from your mind. It’s a dangerous avenue to think down. Ren hacks up another muckball. This one doesn’t seem to want to come out; she’s sweaty and shaking by the time it has, doubled over and crying again. She glances at you, then quickly away. There’s a fresh amount of ichor dripping down her chin.

‘Would this be any more pleasant in the shower?’ you ask. At least she wouldn’t have to sit in her own sick.

She shrugs. ‘I. Maybe. I can’t stand.’

‘I can support you.’ There’s showers off every training room, so it’s not far.

‘I--’ she takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘Okay. Let me. Let me try.’

You stand as she tips inelegantly onto her knees and sits back on them, then hesitates. You offer your hand.

‘Thank you,’ she breathes, and heavily takes it; your arm becomes ironlike as she pushes down with quite some force in bracing herself to her feet. Her skin is clammy. She stands on her own for a moment, tilting slightly like a drunk woman, and you steady her with an arm across her back before she has a chance to fall. Despite the coldness of her hands, her core as you can feel it through her shirt is burning. She loops her arm haphazardly across your shoulders.

‘Fuck,’ she breathes as you begin your hobble to the showers.

‘What?’ You pause.

She shakes her head, panting, and indicates for you to keep moving with a little nudge of her head in the direction of the showers. You obey.

When you lower her onto the floor of a shower stall she curls up like a pillbug, whimpering, arms wrapped to clutch at her stomach. ‘Are you sure medical would be of no assistance?’ you ask.

‘Do we have anyone vaguely familiar with the nature of the force other than myself on board, Captain?’ she asks with pained sarcasm.

‘No, sir.’ The honorific comes out by rote. ‘But painkillers may at least provide some relief--’

‘No,’ she snarls - legitimately  _ snarls,  _ in such a way that for a moment she does not seem quite human, eyes wet and wild - and pushes herself to be sitting. You do not flinch, but you do, for a moment, fear. You are dealing with someone who both vastly outranks and outmatches you. All implications of desired company aside, you are still only a stormtrooper, and now is not the time to be asking questions. You hover for a moment on the edge of your daring, wishing you had your helmet. She does not appear to notice any change in your countenance. She is sufficiently distracted, and makes no moves beyond to sit.

She sits with her shoulders rising and falling in strenuous breaths for several moments before she seems to deflate. ‘I. I apologise, Captain,’ she pants. ‘I. I greatly-- greatly appreciate your help. Painkillers would--’ she blinks sharply; shakes her head. ‘I cannot.’

‘Only a suggestion based in concern, my lady.’

Her next breath sounds almost like a laugh. She looks up at the shower controls. ‘Can you--?’

You close the stall door, step over her legs, and turn on the shower. You're hit by the slight buzz of the vibrations and default cool air. ‘What temperature do you like it?’

‘Warm.’

You fiddle with the controls, and move out of the way. ‘Acceptable?’

She nods into her knees, having drawn them up to her chest again. You return to standing by the door in an attempt to give her more room. The stall is of reasonable size, but between your almost equal bulk there's not much space left now that the door's closed. She scoots to the center of the stall and angles her face up into the blast. You watch her for a moment, finding the scene intimate outside of what you are used to, before she speaks. ‘Can you-- will you come back? Captain?’ She adds your title like an afterthought, voice laced with strange uncertainty. This whole encounter has been strange. Though perhaps not much so; you're only doing your job of keeping this ship in as best shape as you can.

‘Yes,’ you say, and take the implication of your leave to open the stall door. ‘It's my mealtime; should I return after I eat, or sooner? I estimate about forty minutes.’

She nods. ‘A. After. After you eat is fine.’

‘Should I bring you anything?’ You don't expect food is a good idea for her at the moment, even if you had ever seen her anywhere approaching the mess hall, but there might be any number of other items. Besides, what do you know of the force and vomiting up its related substances?

She shakes her head. ‘Alright,’ you say, and remember not to call her sir. ‘I’ll be back.’

You hear the stall latch click moments after you shut the door. On the way out, you comm sanitation to report hazardous waste in training room 7.

  
  
  


You return to your quarters to change back into your uniform before proceeding to the troopers’ mess. Your rank affords you access to the officers’ cafeteria, and you eat there upon fair occasion, but when it comes down to it you’d rather be among your troops. It’s busy when you arrive; the height of delta-epsilon mealtime. Despite the rank signifier adorning your shoulder you blend in smoothly with all the rest of the white-armoured figures. You remove your helmet and look around for a place to sit. Other than training or other occasions that necessitate you or your soldiers’ being out of standard uniform, the mess, the rec room, and the barracks are the only environments in which bare faces are permitted. As such, it’s unusual to see people wearing them here, not least because you all need to access your mouths.

You spot a vacant section of table near the middle and make steadily for it. You are on well enough terms with many of these people to sit with them, but your rank makes it a loaded action, and at the moment you’d like time and space to reflect. You nod curtly to the many various acknowledgements, the salutes, the “Captain”s you receive as you walk through the room. You have never minded this attention. Your troopers like you; respect you. Quite apart from all the ways that is necessary, it is satisfying. You place your helmet at a seat in the center of the vacant ones to claim it and free up your hands for food.

You’re hailed almost the moment you sit back down with your tray of various reconstituted nutrient formats. (You are, occasionally, afforded real food. Very occasionally. At least you gain some satisfaction from the knowledge the food in the officers’ mess is little better.) A trooper with tight-curled black hair and freckles approaches you from the other side of the table. You recognise thon as you recognise everyone: HL-3473. ‘Captain,’ thon greets, saluting.

‘At ease.’

‘May I speak with you?’

‘Yes, Hayley.’ You do your best to remember and acknowledge each of your soldiers’ tags in addition to their IDs. It’s good for morale. Thon smiles. It lights up thons face. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Thon does. ‘It’s about the showers in our barracks, sir, barrack 9. Maintenance hasn’t seen to them.’

You mull this over a moment. You had HL-0104 - Ohfor, HL squad leader - notify maintenance eight shifts ago, which should have been more than enough time to return function to something so necessary. ‘Thank you for alerting me. I am unaware of any factors that might be causing delay, but will investigate it personally as soon as possible.’ Your shift has ended, but anyone on board this ship is kidding themself if they think they ever stop working. You’ll comm maintenance before returning to Ren, and if they need your presence to resolve the matter you’ll work something out. They shouldn’t, though, not if they’re doing their jobs. You suspect outside influence.

‘Thank you, sir,’ thon repeats, and does something with thons face that involves thon closing thons eyes and smiling at once for a brief moment.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Dismissed.’

Thon stands and departs. You start on your dinner immediately; this new factor will consume at least some of your time, and you don’t want to keep Ren waiting. You don’t have the same complaints about the food you’ve heard from others, mostly if not entirely officers. You don’t care what you eat so long as your body gets what it needs to continue running at a satisfactory capacity.

You don’t need to rush yourself to the point of discomfort however, and after a short time of shovelling food into your mouth take a moment to straighten your shoulders and take a few slow breaths. You intended to use this time to reflect on Ren and on what just happened. It is important to remain aware of what is going on around you; perhaps more aware than they’d like you to be. You should not sacrifice this task to hurry.

You resume your meal more slowly and review what transpired. You discovered Ren being violently ill in training room 7. She refused assistance from medical but did not bid you leave. She asked that you stop calling her sir and you sat with her as an equal. You helped her to the shower. She reacted harshly to the suggestion of painkillers; or perhaps to the repeated questioning of her instructions. She asked that you return. Throughout the entire encounter she gave the appearance of being in intense pain and distress.

This is what you have learned: the force changes you. Ren has had experiences similar to this before. Her eyes have turned black. She is transforming. She knew this would happen, but it is apparent she does not know what to do now that it is. She is younger than you perhaps expected at distance. Her voice is higher and less certain than her helmet’s vocoder paints it.

It is likely the Supreme Leader has already undergone this transformation. It is likely the rumours are true. It is likely the Supreme Leader is a monster.

You pause in picking up your spoon, and swallow. It is not the idea of your leader being outside the realms of classifiable sentient species that bothers you so much as the idea of having a rare whisper near confirmed. This isn’t something you should know. If it were, someone would have informed you. This isn’t like the other things you shouldn’t know; isn’t petty details in the social lives of officers you’ve overheard or observed, isn’t small ways in which you and your troops are mistreated that you aren’t supposed to catch onto, is a different creature from your inklings of the larger ways you have always been mistreated and the slow realisation that all propaganda is is propaganda. It is a heavy secret. It does not help you survive. Quite the opposite, in fact.

It takes you a few moments to begin eating again; to resume your reflection. You will not think of the Supreme Leader right now. Whatever form he may take is not relevant. These thoughts are not worth having. You will return your attention to Ren.

Not that Ren, as the Supreme Leader’s apprentice, is much safer a topic to deal in. But she has invited you into her world. You gave her ample opportunity to shut you out.

(What if, later, she changes her mind?

No. You are following her orders. She asked you to return.

You are following orders.)

Back to what you have learned: Ren wishes to hide her suffering at large but does not want to face it alone, to the point where she is willing to concede a stormtrooper to her equal if it gets her some company. This suggests a significant weakness: reliance on others to the extent that it surpasses rank, propriety, and all doctrine and expectation.

The thing is, you’re not entirely sure what to  _ do _ with this information. You have no reason whatsoever to want to destabilise Ren’s position; she is not, in fact, a part of the First Order’s army, and therefore not a diseased branch to be pruned. You have far more to lose than gain by making it public you are in any way over familiar with the Supreme Leader’s apprentice. And she’s special, and above reproach, for that very same apprenticeship. So you’ll just sit on it, you suppose, like you do with the vast majority of things you notice and nobody notices you noticing.

You find yourself faded back to your surroundings, to the sea of different-coloured faces in same-coloured armour chatting around you. You take a bite of your protein bar. You’re probably only imagining it’s less chalky than usual.

You idly observe the happenings around yourself, trying to think if there’s any more nuggets of useful information buried in your encounter. Other than the potentiality of Ren having an aversion to painkillers, you don’t come up with anything. It’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with realisations made later, and at any rate, you’ve already come to enough weighty conclusions for one dinner.

You finish eating, replace your helmet, and return to the quiet of the corridor, the same trail of greetings that followed your entrance bubbling around you as you leave.

You comm maintenance. ‘Showers in barrack 9 of section 13 reported non-functional for the previous eight, potentially nine shifts, requesting priority attention.’

There’s the hiss of static as some young tech with a tremor of fear in their voice replies. ‘We’re real sorry about that, sir, we’ll send someone down there within the hour. We’ve had, uh. An incident.’

A flicker of frustration, of anger passes your brow and hardens your voice. ‘One incident should not keep my troops in sub-par living conditions.’

‘Uh, s, sorry, sorry sir. It’s the computer systems, sir, they were damaged and...’

‘I don’t care. Get those showers fixed.’

‘Yes sir.’

You hang up, still fizzling with frustration as you start the march back down to the training facilities. Your troopers should be higher priority than that. The maintenance crew required to keep a ship of this caliber running should be better organised than that. A ship of this caliber should run smoother than that. This line of thinking gets you nowhere but angrier, and to question is to be insubordinate, and you’ve already done what you can do about it. You can take comfort from the fact that if those showers aren’t repaired by the time you retire to your quarters there’ll be hell to pay.

Alone in the corridor, you take a deep steadying breath. You do not know what the encounter ahead will hold, but you know you’ll need to face it with keen attention and good will. You keep walking.

  
  
  


Ren is in more or less the same position when you return, no mean feat for someone who has just unlocked the door for you. ‘You came back.’

You give the latch only the briefest of quizzical glances before shutting yourself in with her. ‘Did you expect I would not?’ The word sir hovers loaded on the tip of your tongue. You do not speak it.

She looks round at you, eyes lingering on your helmet, but doesn’t reply. Her face is still yellow-pale with illness, vivid dark circles brushed under her eyes, but at least it is clear of ichor. She's turned off the shower. ‘Would you like me to sit with you again?’ you inquire, not feeling like pushing your luck.

She nods. ‘Yes. That’d be--’ she clears her throat and faces forwards again.

You sit. ‘Has your condition improved?’

‘A little. It’s been a bit since the last... since I coughed up anything.’

‘I’m relieved to hear. Has the shower been of help?’

She nods. She’s removed her hair from its doomed ponytail in your absence, and it bounces as she moves her head. Her stance is no longer indicative of someone in pain but rather of someone moping. Her head is resting on folded arms resting on raised knees. ‘You put on your armour.’

You resist the urge to utter the words  _ very astute. _ ‘Yes. I could hardly go to the mess hall in my exercise fatigues.’

She’s quiet again, as though she’s aware she wasn’t saying anything of value. But you suppose-- there is value in that statement. Why should you putting on your armour be important to her?

The silence settles over you like dust. She kicks it up again. ‘You know, they had real showers, like with water, where I. Where I used to live.’ Her voice has a certain melancholy to it. ‘They were nice.’

‘I’ve never experienced one.’

‘Have you ever been in the rain? Without your armour.’

'Yes,’ you say. Most notable in your memory is the campaign on Dalron, a wetworld. You were there for months, and the rains were a constant obstacle to your movements and encampments. Of course, most of the time the rain was just a drumbeat on the roof of your helmet, but you can remember quite clearly the feeling of rain on your face, the little cool splatters. You could understand why she would like something similar to that. 'Several times.’

‘It's kind of like that, but with temperature controls.’

You're not sure why that statement should be amusing to you, but it is. Helmeted as you are, you allow yourself a small smile.

She is apparently out of comments to make about showers, and silence falls between you once more. You assume this is not her intent and so cast around for something to break it. Conversation is not a particularly important aspect of warfare, and therefore you have never sought to make it your strong suit. But something occurs to you: a question; a curiosity you would under ordinary circumstances never voice. Do you dare? She might prefer it.

She flinches slightly and tucks herself smaller and you decide you do dare. She requested your presence for the sake of company. You will do your best to provide it. ‘If you’ll forgive my asking, how did you unlatch the door without rising?’

She turns her head to look at you curiously for a moment. Your fears are assuaged. She looks as though that is not what she expected to hear in the slightest, but far from being upset, is genuinely considering the question with a soft tilt of her head. ‘The force,’ she answers, simply, and reaches a hand over her shoulder: held out, fingers lightly splayed, as one might use to refuse an offer.

You are too busy watching her hand to be watching the latch, but you hear it click and quickly turn your head. It is indeed now open, and the door does as it is inclined and swings ajar. Before your very eyes some power of Ren’s draws it shut again and shuts the latch. You look back to her. It is a small display, but it is unlike anything you have witnessed before. You suddenly understand her value on a level you previously had not. It would not take much imagination to put that power to use in any number of contexts. She’s wearing the vague idea of a smile.

She shuffles around to face you fully. ‘The force,’ she repeats, and you are not sure whether you would call her expression serene or intent. ‘You’ve been told, I’m sure, that it gives me great power, but that’s not true. The force gives me nothing. It does not act. It simply _is,_ and I take from it. It’s everywhere, everywhen, it is around us and in and out of us. Not like air or vacuum. Air doesn’t root in our bones, in our very cores. The force is backdrop to everything. To every inch and iota of existence. It permeates and penetrates; it thrums like lifeblood. It is lifeblood. To everything. To absolutely everything.’ She holds out her hand, curls the fingers, considers it with his eyes glazed. But when she next speaks something changes, and her eyes fix on you for what may be the first real time. They are sharp, dark windows. ‘And I can touch it. I can sink my fingers in and twist.’

Something emerges blinking from the dirt of your mind, but you do not know what it is or what to do with it. You do know this: you are no more frightened of her than you were five minutes ago, even if something in her face makes you feel you perhaps ought to be. But then again, there is a level of deadliness that surpassing only serves as overkill. Five minutes ago she could already have sliced your head off should you for a moment displease her. Now you know she could do so with the fundamental forces of the universe instead of a blade. It makes no difference to the decapitatee.

No, instead what you are feeling is this: interest.

‘You say it's in... everything?’ You try to picture this, but can arrive at no concrete visualisation: the rise and fall of a chest breathing, the sizzling energy of a blaster bolt, the long grey hallways of the Obliterator. Vast expanses of starlight. Patterns of planets slowly turning in space. Objects tiny enough to be liquid pumping through your veins. Everything is beyond your grasp. But that which you can conceptualise you conceptualise infused with a blue-green-purple energy, sparkling from your core to the depths of space. Between hundreds of troopers in rows before a speechmaker. Between a gun and the sky. This is objectively incorrect, you’re sure. But still.

She nods eagerly, dark eyes brightening. ‘It’s the very stuff the universe is made of. Here-- let me show you. Take off your gauntlet.’ She holds her hand out for yours.

You obey with trepidatious curiosity and place your bare hand in hers. Her skin is feverishly warm. As you touch her some current runs between you, quiet and electric, and you shiver. You’re used enough to skin on skin contact, though, and you’re just thinking this must be more that and wondering what is about to happen when the channel opens.

You can _feel_ Ren - feel not just her skin but her heartbeat and calmed breathing and the blink of her eyes and something more that you cannot entirely describe, even to yourself: as though she is not a woman but the dark center of some force of space, something as glittering and natural as it is deathly and _wrong._ But she must be a woman, for you can feel the blood pumping through her veins and the deep aching pain consuming her chest and now, now, the whisper-soft of thoughts that aren’t yours, like looking out a viewport onto a scape of quiet intent and the thrill of attention and the gnaw of pain and the terror of the unknown and the urge to share and the ghost of affection, that’s affection, that’s affection for _you,_ tied only to to the thought-shape of the last couple hours and scraps of gratefulness and curiosity and hunger, and everything is suddenly very clear, for just a moment: her asking you to stay, the awkward nudges of conversation, her objection to your armour. Everything is very clear and you find you understand so very much, enough to see yourself in those mirror-dark eyes, and it as if a lockbox you did not know existed deep inside you has been suddenly teased open, and you would have survived if not for the affection, the affection, oh fuck, the affection, so very small and so very shattering, the touch of warmth in your direction like a glowing ember in a torched wasteland, almost lost in her starscape but so very bright against your armour, and the realisation that she is lonely and you are _lonely--_ it kills you. It kills you.

She takes her hand away, and as suddenly as it started it all stops. Everything is cold and normal again. There are tears on your frozen face.

Your vision is obstructed briefly as she lifts your helmet from your head without touching it and lets it clatter to the floor. You stare at her, desperate for purchase. ‘Sir,’ you gasp, not entirely sure of what you’re saying or even of what you're trying to communicate. ‘Sir,  _ sir, _ I--’

‘Oh, oh fuck, I overdid it, didn't I-- fuck, fuck, fuck-- Um. Shit, um. Captain, can you, can you see me?’

You blink, trying to refocus your vision. There she is front of you, looking stricken. ‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

You answer automatically. ‘Shower block 7-8 in training room section 3, sir.’

‘Who are you?’

‘ET-1378 reporting for duty, sir.’ You're breathless and blinking more than is natural.

‘Who am I?’

‘Lady Kylo Ren, sir.’

She nods. ‘Are you okay?’

You have never been asked a more befuddling question in your life. You open your mouth.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Uh, I'm sorry. I didn't think that-- I didn't think. That wasn’t what I meant to-- I shouldn't have, I... I'm sorry.’

You stare at her, trying desperately to process what is happening. She’s apologising for... for failing to do what she intended, yes, that’s right, that’s what she just said. Which means... you weren’t meant to see that.

Reality crashes down around your ears. You weren’t meant to see that.

‘I’m willing to forget this whole encounter, sir,’ you say before you even have a chance to really think about it.

She looks up from where she’s buried her face against her knees, startled. ‘No, no, that’s not--’ She takes a rattley breath, and when she speaks again it is calmer. ‘That won’t be necessary, Captain, I... As long as you keep this quiet it’s fine. It’s my fault.’ Something in her voice breaks. ‘It’s fine.’

‘As you say, sir.’ You can tell something about this upsets her, but you aren’t about to push. You’ve done more than enough pushing for one shift. For a few weeks, at least.

Except then she starts crying, fat tears welling up and spilling from the corners of her eyes, a hand pressed to her mouth in some attempt to avoid falling apart completely. She’s used to being masked, you remember. Just like you. Still, it’s... startling, to see her like this. These carry so much more weight than her tears of pain earlier. Those were normal. This... you don’t know what to do with this. You watch helplessly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says from behind her hand after many long moments. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come back. But--’ her shining eyes find yours. ‘You felt it, didn’t you? Felt me? I felt you, felt all of you, saw you laid out in white plastoid, you’re barren and raw and caring and lonely and I’m sorry you’re so scared of me-’ She’s speaking the way a boulder rolls down a hill, hand since moved from her mouth to twitch in the air in front of her. You think suddenly that this whole encounter has hurt her far more than it has hurt you. ‘-but you’re  _ not, _ not really, you weren’t afraid to touch me, weren’t afraid to be curious - you just think you should be, you’ve been told to be - I’m telling you not to be.’ She draws her dangling hand in, straightens up. ‘I’m ordering you: don’t be afraid.’

You blink. This is the weirdest goddamn day of your life. But, something very small inside of you says, she has a point. She hasn’t shown you anything to really be afraid of. And you’ve been so daring--

It doesn’t matter. It’s an order either way. ‘Yes sir,’ you say, voice soft against the quiet of the empty shower block.

‘Good,’ she says, and lets herself slump, breathing just noticeably laboured. She must still be in pain. At least she’s stopped crying. She wipes the remnant tears from her face. You should really get some sort of handle on the situation.

So, what’s going on here? You’re not allowed to be afraid of her anymore. This implies that she intends for you to have nothing to fear. That... makes it easier, whatever “it” actually is. What is it? What’s your goal here? To be company for her. That’s all it ever was.

You breathe in, breathe out. Try not to try not to make it too noticeable. There’s so much else going on here. She’s shatteringly lonely. She feels for you. She fell apart at the suggestion that you leave her alone again. She’s been tearing down the barriers between you all evening. And hasn’t she just laid hands on everything you are like no-one ever has?

And what for? Coincidence that you should be the one to stumble upon her when she’s this desperate, ready to grasp at anyone? Could you be anyone?

You give yourself two answers at once, two negatives:

No, incorrect, you  _ are _ anyone--

And no, it happened because-- you reached out to her.

You think you understand. And you know what your options are: to withdraw, or to proceed. And here’s the thing: you make a decision. It is probably a bad decision. You make it anyway.

‘I felt you,’ you confirm.

Her eyes noticeably widen as she refocuses them on you, lips parted. ‘What did you see?’

‘I saw space as you see it from a viewport. I saw that you’re lonely, too. I saw that you’re hungry, and afraid.’ A stab of fear strikes through you as you bring attention to it, but you do not let it control you. ‘I saw why you wanted me here.’ And nervous but decided, you offer her your hand.

She looks at it, still with that wide-eyed wonder you’ve never seen on the face of an officer, and takes it; rotates it in hers and entwines your fingers. Her hands are larger than yours, no mean feat: long knobbly fingers, pale skin dark around the knuckles, adorned with a few small dark spots like the rest of her, warm with illness and wet with her tears. She keeps her eyes on your hands for a moment as though it’s a delicate procedure that requires her utmost attention, though after a moment finds your face and a shy smile.

You’ve been smiled at before, certainly. It’s the customary present to offer with thanks. But there’s something in particular about this-- the strangeness of the situation, you think. The fact that she is who she is, this dark spectre glimpsed down corridors whose approach is heralded by the stiffest salutes. The fact that you are being thanked for something as simple as touch.

Your thoughtstream doubles back on that middle thing. If this is what she’s like, why is everyone so afraid of her? She cuts an impressive figure, yes, and her rank is even more deadly, but you’ve barely even seen her. She spends most of her time away on missions or sequestered who knows where. You’ve never heard tell of her actually menacing anyone. Which means she carries a wave of fear by reputation alone, and--

Oh.

Something slots into place. Something you would rather never have realised. She’s right. You’ve only ever been told to be afraid of her, and not by her. It was by General Talzo. You can remember him speaking the words: _ A guest of the utmost importance; fail to obey her orders and you’ll be lucky to make it to reconditioning.  _ But she doesn’t want you to be afraid. She’s lonely to the point of tears. And the little space where those two contradictory statements overlap is illuminating in the most terrifying way possible.

You can feel your eyes widen. ‘What is it?’ she asks. You wrestle with the concept. Is it safe to tell her? It is. You are being unafraid, and after all it’s her... punishment? Is that what this is? That’s what isolation is for troopers. You’re pack animals. Loneliness can starve out a lot. Is she the same? You remember wondering earlier if she would be slated for decommission because of her transformation. It feels like you had that thought a lifetime ago.

But is that all she is? Despite all her rank and trappings, is she nothing more than Supreme Leader Snoke’s personal trooper?

For a moment you can feel the maw of the void open around you, dark and infinite. This is too big a concept for you to wrap your mind around but for that moment you feel you have done it in the abstract. The systems of power. Leashes in hands. The throat-closing thought that  _ rank means nothing. _ What is it all for? You suddenly remember she has asked you a question.

You struggle to make your voice work, to find the words. ‘You’re like me,’ you say eventually. ‘Aren’t you?’

She fixes your face for a long moment. There’s fear in her eyes. She nods. Something in her demeanour has shifted completely from relief to solemnity. You wonder if she’s still reading your mind. You wonder if you object.

Eventually she speaks with a hesitancy that says she is thinking about the words as she says them. ‘Captain, I... I think we’re in this together now.’ She coughs a little, her free hand rising to cover her mouth. When she withdraws it there is a small trail of black slime on the back. Her eyes are still fearful, and they keep finding yours and dropping them again.

You nod slowly. ‘I think you’re right.’

Somehow this cements the future into something you are prepared for. Somehow this closes the void. It’s still there. But the jaws are interlocked, and there’s a chance - a chance - they will be safe to run across. Maybe if you’re holding her hand they won’t open beneath you.

‘What’s your tag, what should I call you?’

You find her eyes. ‘Phasma.’

‘Phasma,’ she repeats. The way it falls from her mouth, it might be beautiful. She wets her lips. ‘Tell me your ID again?’

‘ET-1378.’

‘ET-1378, ET-1378--’ she repeats like a mantra to herself-- she’s memorising it, memorising  _ you. _ Her hand has grown clammy in yours and she clutches it tight. ‘ET-1378.’ When she meets your eyes again hers are no longer so nervous. ‘If anyone tries to hurt you, relocate you, do anything to you you don’t want-- tell them I forbid it. Tell them to talk to me if they must.’

You feel a little heady with power all of a sudden.  _ Anything you don’t want. _ You know you can’t pull that card too often. But it’s something. It’s more than something. Illusions of control aside, you now have the woman touted as the second most important person in the entire Order in your corner. The rift may exist under your feet. But the people that dwell above it suddenly don’t frighten you. You nod. She nods too, once and certain, and it feels like the stamp at the bottom of a shipping order. ‘Will you help me back to my quarters?’

‘Yes,’ you say, and let go of her hand. Put your gauntlet and helmet back on. Stand up, help her to her feet. She’s moving easier than before though she still leans heavily on you, your arms around each other’s shoulders. You help her out of the stall. ‘Hang on, let me. Let me get some water,’ she says before you can leave the shower block, so you act as pillar next to the dispenser while she downs several cups. That must be her entire daily allowance, you think, but you suppose it’s worth it. Maybe she gets a larger allotment than the rest of you. 

‘Okay,’ she says as she clumsily pushes her cup down the chute to be washed. Her arm around your back clenches as she moves away from leaning towards standing. You help her out of the training room since cleared of all ichor or signs of either of your presences, and begin the trek to her quarters.


End file.
